


sunday

by jayyxx



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker, Castiel in the Bunker, Cuddles, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, and needing each other, but hey if you ship them, i wrote this as sam and kevin being bffs, you'll prob like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayyxx/pseuds/jayyxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel greets him with a “creep," and Dean can't help but smile, because hey, that man right there, is the man he's in love with. </p>
            </blockquote>





	sunday

**Author's Note:**

> so this has been sitting around on my computer for like years and i fixed it up just so i could get it out of my head.  
> general audiences. thats how fluffy this is.  
> btw; if you ship samxkevin you'll be happy w this, if you don't, i hope you like cuddles.

You lined me up  
Across the room  
Two falling sparks  
One willing fool  
And I, I always knew  
That I would love you from afar  
(From Afar- Vance Joy) 

 

There's something so comforting about Sunday's.   
The world seems to slow down, time moves a little slower, words spoken; are a little softer. The bed is always warm on Sunday's, because you went to sleep at some ungodly hour in the early morning, and your body is still stuck in a sleepy haze.   
So on Sunday's, you wake up feeling good.   
You can blame it on the Sunday morning. 

 

He really wishes there were windows in this damn building. He misses the way the light streaks in between half open blinds in a dingy hotel room. Or through the rolled down car window, as the soft Sunday sun warms the black exterior of the car. But now, Sunday mornings --and every other morning-- is met by the same dark room, only light being the one that hides under the bedroom door. 

 

The floor boards creek under his feet and he has the urge to apologize to them. It's not their fault he's getting chubby and the poor tiles just can't hold him up.   
When he makes it to the shower room, there's a soft voice singing even softer songs as steam pours through into the room. He can't hear the water running, so he bravely pushes the door open and steps inside.   
Cas has a lovely singing voice, and it doesn't matter how many times he says "all angels can sing, Dean." with his playful half smiles and beautiful blue eyes, Dean will always believe that he is just a good singer. Plain and simple, not because he was an angel, or because he took a "learn to sing like an angel" class when he was a little boy with a lopsided halo and poofy wings. It's because the no-longer-Jimmy-Novak's voice is beautiful. And today it's singing smooth hums that begin and end with "Start spreading the news. I'm leaving today, you wanna be a part of it. New York! New York!" slowly repeating over and over like he doesn't know the rest of the lyrics, or just likes that one in particular.   
Dean leans easily on the door frame as he watches the man move, scraping a blade down his too-sexy throat and then lifting and placing it on his cheeks that blush when he's happy, or drunk, or tired. Or when Dean smiles at him. Or anytime Deans around him, but that's okay, because Dean loves that blush. He watches the flex of muscles and bone under his tanned skin, that is only tan because Dean forced him to spend time in the sun, worrying about his paleness. He makes Cas eat oranges and take vitamin C pills to help, but his skin looks much healthier then it did after the fall, after the trials.  
He watches the newly formed muscles shift, letting his eyes track all the way from the hair drying in front of his eyes, down his torso and over the plaid boxers he’s dressed in.  
Castiel greets him with a “creep," and Dean can't help but smile, because hey, that man right there, is the man he's in love with. 

 

Not that'd he'd ever say anything like that aloud, but in his happy little head, it's known.   
Dean hopes, more then anything that Castiel knows. Because Dean damn sure knows Cas loves him. But they've never said it. But it's in the way they move. The way they look at each other with fire (or just straight up compassion) in their gazes that's tells anyone that Dean is Cas's and Cas is Dean's. Even if they never say it. 

 

Kevin slept in Sam's room again. They barely sleep at all when separated. They've become so dependent on each other in these past few weeks, with Sam recovering from the trials and Kevin; from the work on the tablet(s). Dean has never seen Sam get so attached to anyone who wasn't himself or Bobby, but him and Kev make a good match. He'll go to check on them every night after checking the wards, and when he doesn't find them laying like two ten year old boys at their first sleep over (Kevin's head at Sam's feet and his toes pointing to sam's head) they're sleeping like two fifteen year old girls at their millionth sleep over, laying side by side with their hands reaching to grasp and heads leaning to touch. Dean will sometimes find Kevin on the love seat, little teenaged legs pulled against him, and you'll even see Sam's hand, reaching out to pull him back into the bed. After a while, Sam starts to call Kevin his best friend, and vice versa. And Dean gets it. The want to be beside someone you trust and need, as much as they trust and need you. And no one needs you like your best friend. So when screams come from the room one night, nightmares surly racking Kevin’s body. Dean will peel the door open to find Kevin sobbing, holding onto Sam like a lifeline. And maybe that's what he is.   
Then in the morning when it's nearing noon and neither of them are up, Dean will wake them from their cocoon, curled together in a tangle of too-long hair and limbs. 

 

Today, they look better.  
Both on their own pillows, Sam curled toward the door, with Kevin’s head between his shoulder blades. Pressing there lightly, just a slight reassurance that he’s there if Sam needs him.  
“Sam.” Dean tests, voice echoing in the empty room. Neither move, so Dean shuts the door, leaving only a string of light along the ground. 

 

The smell of coffee is present in the halls as he makes his way to the kitchen. Castiel is there, in his hoodie and boxers, standing up on his socked toes, reaching for a mug on the top self. Dean knows he's only a few inches taller then him, so he rubs it in by fitting himself up behind him and grabbing the bee mug with ease, passing it into his hand only a few inches down. Cas leans his shoulders back, knocking Dean in the chest and causing him to step back enough for Castiel to turn around and head for the coffee maker. He makes a cup for Dean as well, and they sit at the table, knees knocking and hands passing a scone Sam picked up at a market the day before. 

 

Kevin comes out around ten; when Castiel’s feet are resting on Dean’s thighs as he reads his book, while Dean reads a ratty magazine about cars. An old radio plays a song with a twangy guitar. He’s holding the tablet under his arm, a notebook in the other. His feet are bare, black sweats riding up past his ankles. He rubs at his eyes, looking like he didn’t sleep, even though Dean has evidence of him doing so. Cas sighs, sitting up and placing his book on the table. He stands and walks towards the teen, who only take flinches a little bit when Castiel places a hand on the side of his face. It’s an improvement. Ever since the angels fell, and he had been on the run, he’s been jumpy around people other then Sam. Without breaking eye contact, Cas pulls the tablet from his arm, watching it fall limply at his side, like its useless without having to hold the tablet.  “Let’s take a break.” He says as he takes the notebook along with the tablet and places them on the couch beside Dean. He turns Kevin around, pushing him with a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him out of the living room and down the hall. 

 

Dean finds Castiel smiling around his second mug of coffee in the kitchen as he watches Kevin make large hand gestures while telling a story from his childhood. An empty plate sits in front of the teen, bread crumbs, orange peels and globs of jam the only thing that shows that he ate at all.  
“Kev,” Dean starts. Kevin’s eyes look brighter then they have in weeks when he swivels his head to look at Dean in the kitchen hall. The smile from telling his story is still there, as doesn’t leave as Dean asks;  
“Was Sam awake when you left?”  
“Uh, yeah he’s in the shower room. So anyways…” He answers, turning back to Castiel, who nods along like he’s listening to a small child talk. Flowers bloom in Dean’s chest at the sight. 

 

He knocks twice before pushing into the shower room. Sam is dressed, hair wet, sitting on the lidded toilet, head low between his knees. Dean rushes to his side, sliding a few good inches on his jean clothed knees before holding tightly to Sam’s side.  “Hey, buddy, hey.” “I’m fine.” He says, hair in front of his eyes, face splotchy and breathing rough. “Just dizzy.” Dean holds onto his knee, grounding him. It’s like he has the flu. The flu that will never get better. Headaches, lightheadedness, shaking hands. He doesn’t eat much, sleeps too much, and showers just enough for it to not be disgusting.  
“Should I get Kevin?” Dean asks, scared. After Sam told him he felt like a failure for not finishing the trials. Not doing what he had to. For quitting. And it doesn’t matter how many times Dean tells him he didn’t quit, that he made him quit. Jesus, its like he forgot how Dean had to contact some rough angel because his wasn’t answering, and was just about to let the dude possess Sam, before another angel came in, killed the first one, and healed Sam with a touch to his forehead. It was a mess, but Sam was alive, and all the angel wanted was some safety for a while. Dean gave him a motel room key and the change from his pocket. He hated himself, but that was all he had. The angel had thanked him, wished his brother a good luck and was gone.  
He knows that right now, Sam doesn’t want to be around his brother. That he gets the comfort and support he needs from the prophet. That he doesn’t want to see the pity in his Dean’s eyes.  Sam shakes his head, trying to stand up on his own. Dean hooks his arms around his brother’s chest, lifting him up so he’s standing. He is much lighter then he used to be.  
“Dude, you’ve gotta cut this, or use the hair elastics Charlie bought you.” He teases, after helping him to his feet, and brushing hair off his forehead. Sam backs away from his touches, leaning against the counter. He breathes heavily, forcing himself to relax, and (surprisingly) takes Deans outstretched hand, silently asking for help.  
Dean gets him back into bed and brings him his coffee. He tells him to take an aspirin and get some rest, promising him he’ll check up on him in a bit. 

 

Night approaches too fast. He pushes open the front door, prepared to go grab groceries, but when he sees stars in the sky, he recoils. His phone says 4 PM, but it must be wrong, because his watch and the large clock in the war room say 9 PM.  
Kevin and Sam are watching a movie. Lord of the rings, or maybe the hobbit. Whatever it is, he hears wails of laughter from the room over, and find them passing a bag of popcorn and accidentally drinking from each others beer bottles.  
Castiel is standing, in all his holy light, in the middle of the war room. His face is upturned, staring at the high ceiling of the bunker. Dean comes to stand in front of him, waving a hand over his face. Cas doesn’t even flinch.  
“Dude.” Dean starts, shoving at his shoulder.  
“Michelangelo painted portraits of God and his family on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It took him four years. Between 1508 and 1512, he painted angels, humans, gods.” He explains, like he’s reading straight from a text book. His eyes meet Dean’s. “I met him.”  
Dean looks at him with curiosity. Sometimes, Castiel goes on rants about the past. He worries his newly human mind won’t be able to keep the knowledge with him, so he tells Dean. Or Kevin, or Sam. Or even just writes it all down in notebooks.  
“Once I told him I was a God Sent, he prayed to me. Asking me for help. Asking me to heal his numb fingers that prevented him from painting. Prayed asking me to zoom him into the future where he didn’t have to paint anymore. But I believe he died happy. Happy because of his work.” His eyes flicker between the ceiling and Dean’s deep green ones.  “I want to die happy.” “Cas…” “No, Dean. I want to be known. I want to die happy because I know I left my mark. Happy because of my work.” Castiel says, eyes heavy and sad on Dean’s own.  
“Cas.” Dean insists, sadder this time.  
“No, you don't understand what I’m getting at. You are my mark. I’ll be known because I saved you. And I will die happy because I saved you.” And a tear rolls down his cheek. Its small and quiet, and he wipes it away so fast Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn't been staring at him for the whole speech, not even blinking. And, being honest, anyone would have done it if they saw how sad Castiel looked. Dean wrapped his arms around his best friend’s shoulders, holding him close with a hand at the base of his neck.  “I’m so glad it was you.” He whispers in to ash dark hair. Cas lets out a sniffle against his collarbone, and Dean squeezes him tightly before letting go. He kisses Castiel’s hair line without commanding his body to do so, and he finds, he doesn’t feel any different. The world doesn’t stop. He showed Castiel is simple comfort that he needed and he doesn't feel the world stop spinning. He promises to do it again. 

 

So when Castiel slips under his sheets, soft smile and softer skin, laying warm next to Dean in the queen bed, he kisses him. And Cas is happy to go along with the plan, kissing into his mouth like he’s wanted to for years. Since the barn. Dean trails fingers down his back, over where his wings would be.  
He holds on to Castiel. He says his thanks, his apologies, his forgiveness into the brush of hot lips along the other man’s jaw.  
He holds on, and he doesn’t let go. Not tonight. Not ever.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @ghostycas on tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
